


The Runaway Café

by acid_glue234



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/F, Family Drama, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Humor, Mild Language, Romance, Tragedy, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That autumn, we interviewed people, got into mischief, shared our pasts, lived and learned, healed, pushed the limits, helped each other, made promises, made our movie, made our mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Introvert and the Vagabond

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing a different take on these two characters once again. Completely AU. It has a (500) Days of Summer feel to it where it tends to skip around at times. Hope that's not too confusing ;)

That anything but warm, tired autumn, I was a backwards tornado. Twirling at the speed of seventy miles per hour, all a tornado can accomplish is the destruction of pocket-sized towns and tiny cars by cracking spider-webbed glass, pulling windows off their hinges, turning pickup trucks onto their sides, and destroying not only the fragile town, but the lives of those who live in the fragile town.

Now, if you were to somehow catch this tornado in action on tape and play it on rewind, you'd see the complete opposite of destruction.

You'd see repair; slowly and efficiently the wicked tornado would replace the broken shards of glass, re-hinge the crooked window, upturn the fallen pickup truck, effectively rejuvenating the fragile town you once thought could never be fixed.

Thinking about it now, I ought to laugh at the idea. I was no healer, and I'm still not, but if Santana believed it, you should know now that I believed it too.

* * *

  _60 days **before** winter..._  


"Tell me about your life."

The wrinkly old woman sitting across the table carefully dragged her eyes from my serious expression to the silver tape recorder pressed flat on the table. I tried to smile, but the action hurt my face from lack of use, turning the gesture into more of a grimace than a friendly expression.

"I thought you were going to ask me questions?" she asked, crinkling her nose.

"I'm not a reporter, miss," I reassured her for probably the fifth time this afternoon. "Ever heard of a _documentary?"_

Fiddling with the thin reading glasses tied around her neck, the elderly woman narrowed her eyes on me, as if insulted by my question. "Of course I've heard of documentaries," she said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "After all, I _am_ eighty-one years old, dear."

Even though the woman seemed a bit peeved, I ignored her upturned nose and haughty sneer in favor of clicking my pen and scribbling down her age in my notepad.

Now we were getting somewhere.

"Eighty-one, you say.” I quickly did the calculations in my head until I came up with a result. "So, you were born in 1932. I bet life was a lot different back then to how it is nowadays."

I purposefully refrained from asking her too many questions. I didn't want answers like yes, no, and maybe dirtying up my notepad. I wanted to hear a story. Sometimes it's not about asking the right questions, it's about steering the conversation in the right direction.

All I really wanted was to have a nice discussion. It didn't matter who it was with, or what it was about. Politics, religion, thoughts on abortion, illegal trafficking, bunnies and rainbows, Huckleberry Finn, apples and bananas.

It didn't really matter to me. All I needed was someone to talk to. And if that made me seem desperate in the process, well...that was neither here nor there.

For years, all I ever did was observe from afar, especially in places like schools, aquariums, bookstores, coffee shops, hospitals. People watching was not only my specialty, it was my entire life.

If I sat in a coffee shop long enough and just watched, by the end of the day I could recite to you all of the coffee orders, how much the customers paid, what form of payment they used, and if they grabbed a napkin on their way out just in case a small spillage occurred between their current location and the destination they were heading towards.

Both a gift and a curse. I'd get so enraptured in watching other people's lives, I'd easily forget about my own, which evidently wasn't very healthy. It's not my fault I chose this tactic as a way of escapism. The only person I could find to blame this on was my mother. And the only person I could thank for pulling me out was Santana.

"Well," the old woman contemplated, "They sure didn't have any of those fancy gadgets and gizmos you children have these days."

"That's helpful," I muttered, continuing to click my pen.

"And," she added, taking a sip of her coffee. "We had a lot more focus. Especially the young women."

"How do you mean?" I asked, skeptical.

The elderly woman shook her head sadly. "Where are the housewives? Where are the devoted mothers? Where are the picket fences and the two and a half children?"

I resisted the urge to scoff. People so closed-minded made my stomach ache sometimes.

"Oh," I drawled, squeezing the bridge of my nose. "So, you're one of _those_."

"Pardon?"

"You're one of _those_ ," I repeated, reaching forward to turn off my tape recorder. "People who are stuck in a specific time zone never move forward, miss. It seems to me that you need to move on. And I say this in the most respectful way possible."

The old woman seemed affronted at first; white eyebrows knit together, lips pursed tersely. Even her wrinkled hand grasped on tighter to her cane.

She looked ready to fight back, but before she could whack me in the side, I continued with, "Imagine if enough people still had the beliefs of our ancestors during slavery times. Life changes, times change, and with time, our mindset should change as well. Throughout the decades, women have broken out of their stereotypes, shackles, which have hindered us from succeeding in a male-dominated world.

"Why add fuel to their already burning fire, miss? We have to remember the strong women who stood up and burned their bras for our rights," I rambled on, "Somehow, I doubt you were one of the many hippies who made signs and rallied around Congress for hours on end and chanted for equal rights and wages-"

Somewhere in the middle of my calm argument, the old woman had become even more insulted and began collecting her things. I didn't stop speaking, even though I knew I was in the process of driving her away, and as she noisily slid her chair into the table, I raised my voice a volume louder so she could hear the end of my diatribe as she exited the café.

You can say I'm a persistent nuisance; I didn't stop babbling on until she was out the door. Once she was gone, though, I exhaled to catch my breath and looked around to find the whole entire café staring at me as if I had three heads.

Not two, but three.

To my delight, though, a sixteen year old girl in the back of the café looked as if she wanted to applaud, but before she got the chance her mother shot her a cold look, silently telling her not to encourage my radical behavior.

"What are you, a reporter?"

First words Santana ever spoke. To me, at least. At the time, I was annoyed, because, _no_ —I was not a reporter, interviewer, detective, private investigator, or any of the above. Was it really so strange to see a person strolling about with a notepad and pen all day? I didn't think so, but it seems my opinion didn't matter.

"Reporters ask questions," I answered, peering up into the brownest eyes I'd ever seen. "Reporters dig for dirt and search for a particular story that may or may not exist. I don't ask questions. I don't dig for particular stories, only true ones."

She continued to gaze down at me with this unreadable expression. Till this day, I still can't manage to make sense of it. In that moment, standing there, she was anything and everything and too much but not enough.

"So," she drawled, absentmindedly tightening the mud-brown apron around her waist with a tug. "Is that a no?"

"Yes."

"A yes?"

" _No_ , it's a no," I replied briskly, rolling my eyes to the cracked ceiling, because who was this barista to question me on how I spent my Sunday afternoons?

As far as I knew, it was still a free country, thus it was within my rights to freely sit at this table in this coffee shop for as long as I wanted. As far as I knew, I could talk to whomever I wanted in this rainy city, and if they allowed me to record their musings, it was none of this beautiful barista's damn business.

"Well, that's a shame," she said in response to my abrupt statement, shaking her head with a thoughtful pout. "I could really use a reporter right now." Ducking her head, she leant down and whispered, "The douche I work for pays the women on staff less than the men. And I mean, that's definitely illegal, right?"

Just because I listened and read and talked about political issues didn't mean I understood them. I was only nineteen for heaven's sake; I didn't know what I was doing with my life.

"I..." Biting the corner of my lip, I racked my brain for something smart to say. "Uh, sure."

She smiled slowly, this questioning twinkle in her eyes. "I think I'm going to get him arrested."

"And how do you plan on doing that?" I asked skeptically, but for some reason I didn't doubt she had a plan forming somewhere in that stubborn head of hers.

"Easy peasy." Shrugging a shoulder, she glanced towards the cash register where a lanky man with a baseball cap stood. "I happen to know my boss keeps weed back in the storage room." She turned around and looked at me with a sneaky grin. "You should right this stuff down if you want an interesting story for the news tonight."

"For the billionth time, I am _not_ a reporter," I huffed, fiddling with my notepad anxiously. "And I'm not writing a story for the news."

"Then what _are_ you doing?" she asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"I, um..." I stuttered, rubbing the back of my sweaty neck. The way she stared at me; eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, hip cocked to the side, made me feel exceptionally anxious. I didn't know who she was, but oddly, I wanted to find out. "Tell me about your life."

It was beginning to become a nervous habit of mine; randomly blurting out this five word phrase in order to get out of predicaments I couldn't complete.

In my opinion, that statement was the beginning of the end for us. Why was I so curious to learn of people’s lives I would probably never even see again anyway? I still don’t really know the exact answer to that question, like most questions I ask.

Apparently her shift was over, because instead of waving me off like my mother, the barista sat down and told me a twisted version of the truth that was her past. It's been years since then, so the details of her tale are a bit fuzzy, but if I remember correctly, she told me she was a dangerous convict on the run from the law.

A regular raconteur she was;

"Killed a man," she told me with this wicked smirk slashed across her face, but the deep dimples in her cheeks kind of simmered the deadly glaze in her eyes as she explained how she got away with it.

"The coppers searched far and wide, but there was one place they never suspected," the barista whispered, ducking her head secretly. "Traveling cross-country in my grandfather's hippie van was the last thing the police would've guessed. Working at a low-down and dirty café was even farther off their radar."

The story was oddly amusing, and I think she knew I was enjoying it, because the more and more I smiled at her words, the more and more ridiculous and convoluted the story became.

"Joined a circus while passing through Arkansas. No one suspected a thing but the fortune teller. She wanted a bribe in order to shut her up, but I had no cash, so I had to kill her too," she whispered, shaking her head with a dark chuckle. "After the circus, I worked as a grease monkey at a garage in Nebraska. The wrench became my new favorite weapon of choice. Again, no one suspected a thing except for the boss' dog. Couldn't kill a pup though; that just ain't right."

Mesmerized, I listened on carefully. "So, what did you do?"

"I ran," she said, as if obvious. "You know, in case of the off chance dogs gained the ability to speak over night or something."

I laughed unwillingly and genuinely for probably the first time in months. It felt weird bubbling up my throat. It felt even weirder as it sat on my tongue and escaped my parted lips. Laughter; something you can't ever really forget to do no matter how long you go without practice.

"Most people call me San. That's my nickname," she told me, thrusting a hand over the table. She had thin hands, I noted, placing my palm into hers for a quick shake.

"Sam?" I asked, curling my sweaty hand into a fist after retracting my arm.

"No. _San_ ," she repeated. "S-A- _N_. But I like you, so you can call me by my real name, Santana. I’m trusting you won’t call the police, okay?"

I laughed again. Santana, so easy to talk to and joke with and laugh at. I never really had friends before, and I'm still really proud to say she was my first ever.

"I'm not a reporter, remember? I have no reason to call the cops."

"I like the way you think..." she trailed off, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

"Quinn," I offered. "And that's all anyone ever calls me, so...no nickname."

She smiled then; the first time I ever saw those pearly white teeth. "Quinn, Quinn, Quinn," she repeated three times fast with a curt nod. "Got it."

It was dark out now. It seems I was so lost in Santana's incriminating story that I didn't even notice the setting sun, or the herd of people leaving the café, or the low music in the background come to an abrupt stop as the employees began stacking the chairs as they cleaned up shop.

Santana stood up from her seat across from me and continued to grin. I smiled back; not only to be polite though. She kind of unknowingly forced it out of me. It's hard to explain, really.

"I guess I'll see you around, Quinn, Quinn, Quinn," she said, while untying her apron.

"I guess so," I said, watching as she backed away from my table and headed towards the glass doors.

 _Bye_ , she mouthed, peeking over her shoulder one last time.

And with that, she was gone, leaving me with a massive headache and a tape recorder which had been inconveniently turned off during Santana's entire rant on why burying missing dead bodies in a cemetery is a much better place than the woods. 


	2. The Fox and the Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana didn't listen to anyone but Santana. Strangely, it was her stubbornness and hard head that I found the most attractive. If you think I'm argumentative, you don't even know the half of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of advice; make sure to pay attention to the days. They don't skip around but each chapter starts from the beginning, so.

I was weird, quirky, and kind of smart. Before that autumn, I didn't even have one friend, unless you count my father.

My parents divorced when I was seventeen. Although they hated each other, my dad still managed to find a place in his heart to continue loving my no-good mother.

For the longest time, I lived with my dad, down in the basement. That place was like my little sanctuary, where I could just get away and leave all of my shit behind.

The first time I escaped down to the basement was when I learned of my mother's affair. I was never able to find it within myself to forgive her, and thinking about it now, I know Santana would be disappointed in me if she knew I still carried around all of this animosity in my heart.

She always hated leaving things incomplete, unsaid. Regrets were her biggest fear. It was like some kind of OCD with her where she couldn't move on from an issue until it was resolved.

Even when we argued, she wouldn't let me get away until we made up. I kind of admired that about her because she always asked herself the scary questions I was afraid to face. The _what if_ questions.

"What if you die tomorrow, God forbid, and I never got the chance to apologize?" she'd ask me, furrowing her eyebrows in concern. "I'd never forgive myself for hurting you when I could have just made it better right now."

I should have taken her advice, especially when it came to forgiving my mother, because it just ended up hurting me in the long run.

* * *

_  
57 days **before** winter..._

My father was an emotional mess after my mother left him. For fifty days and fifty nights, he cried on and off. He couldn't even sleep in his own bed; it reminded him too much of Judy, apparently.

"It smells just like her," he'd say, before grabbing a pillow and heading downstairs to sleep on the couch.

I felt bad for him because he didn't deserve this. He was a really good dad; not like some of the father's my classmates had. Their father's would hurt them, or verbally abuse them, or give them money in exchange for love and affection.

My dad wasn't like that. Every Sunday morning, starting when I was four, my dad used to wake me up at six o'clock to take me on a walk through the park. I loved those mornings, even though I didn't like waking up early on the weekends.

I loved the fresh air coming from the trees, the melodic chirping of the birds, the rising of the sun. It was nice. Simply that.

Santana reminded me of Sunday mornings in the park. She smelled like fresh air, sung like a hummingbird, and smiled as bright as the rising sun. It was nice seeing her happy. Simply that.

It was three days after we first met when I went back to the cafe. I wasn't really expecting to see her there, and to be completely honest, I had kind of forgotten about her and our bizarre conversation.

I had a lot of things going on in my life at around the time Santana entered it. My mom was sleeping with a man that wasn't my father. My father was sleeping on the couch because the bed smelled too much like my mother.

And I was sleeping in the basement, because my room reminded me too much of the way things used to be; before I dropped out of high school, before my mom cheated on my dad, before my family fell apart, before my dad stopped taking me to the park on Sunday mornings.

"Hey there, Quinn, Quinn, Quinn," Santana said as she approached me at my regular table in the back of the coffee shop.

I looked up, first surprised that she remembered my name, three times over at that, and second, because she wasn't wearing her apron this time. "Hi," I said back, before going back to jotting down ideas in my notepad.

Santana stood there for another few seconds, and then plopped down across from me. "You haven't been around in awhile," she said, pointing out the obvious.

"Nope," I responded.

After another few moments of silence, Santana stood up and left, and I thought that was it; I had ruined yet another opportunity to make friends. But to my surprise, Santana returned just five minutes later with two cups of coffee. One for her, and one for me.

I kept my eyes glued to her as I took a steady sip. It was my order. "How did you..." I began, puzzled.

Santana smirked. "Just one of my many talents."

* * *

After that, we met at _The Runaway Café_ everyday at noon. My father didn't think I was a grubber or anything, but I guess he thought it was important that I come out of the basement every now and then, because it was his idea that I do the documentary in the first place.

Before my father encouraged me to do this project, I was pretty much set on dwelling down in that basement for the rest of my life. I did a lot of things that weren't very healthy back then. It took a really good friend to pull me out of those self-destructive habits of mine.

It's funny, I think, especially now, that Santana Lopez of all people was the one to pull me out. Annoyingly accurate Santana Lopez. Videotapes anything she can find Santana Lopez. Obsessed with finishing everything she starts Santana Lopez. Kind of frustrating, kind of messed up, kind of fucking beautiful, kind of motherfucking amazing Santana Lopez.

Our daily meetings were never a thing set in stone. It just sort of happened. _The_ _Runaway Café_ was a place I'd never visited before that day, and apparently the day we met was also the first time Santana had worked there, so to me it was like fate.

I don't know what it meant to Santana, but she never stopped showing up at noon, so I never stopped either.

There was something about Santana. To me, she was absolutely invincible. Nothing could touch her. Nothing could hold her back.

But at the same time, she was just a person; this amazing person that I didn't understand but wanted to know so badly that it hurt.

* * *

 

_45 days **before** winter..._

"My grandpa knows the secret," she told me.

"What secret?" I asked.

Santana laughed, as if I had just asked the dumbest question. _"What secret?"_ she repeated, incredulous. "The only secret every human being struggles to find the answer to."

Her vague clue didn't really bring me much closer to understanding what she was talking about, so I took a leap of faith and said, "The secret to life?"

"No, no, no," Santana said, shaking her head. "No, the secret isn't life. It's _death_."

Although I knew I was in for a morbid explanation to whatever she was talking about, I asked anyway. "What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it. No matter what religion you believe in, we all had to come from the same place. _Where_ is this place? _What_ is this place?" Santana wondered aloud, raising her eyebrows. "Those who are gone, the ones who have passed; they know the secret. My grandpa now knows what no one on this earth knows, and that's what keeps me going."

I probably replayed her words over and over again in my mind for days. Even now, years after that day, I still look back and remember her words, because no matter how morbid and haunting the theory, I was immediately invested.

She had planted this idea in my mind, and I couldn't forget it no matter how hard I tried.

* * *

Every time I look back on that autumn, the first thing I always see is Brennan, Santana's mutt. It was a stray that she found in the alleyway of the café and took in as her own.

Being the homeless loner that she was, Santana didn't really have a place to stay, so she kept the mutt in her van, which I used to tell her over and over again was really unsanitary, but of course she didn't listen to me.

Santana didn't listen to anyone but Santana. Strangely, it was her stubbornness and hard head that I found the most attractive. If you think _I'm_ argumentative, you don't even know the half of it.

The two of us could argue for hours on end without even pausing to take a breath, and I think that's the reason it took us so long to become such good friends.

Santana was intense. She was powerful. She was incredibly intelligent and stupidly beautiful. But most importantly, she was alone, which befuddled me beyond compare.

I was the weird one. I was the stranger. I was the leper. So, why was _she_ alone? Sure, she was misunderstood, but aren't we all? Sure, she was a bit out there, but aren't we all?

* * *

 

_32 days **before** winter..._

Sometimes, Santana would just talk and talk, even when no one was listening. I guess she just had a lot to say. I used to find talkative people irritating, but now that I think about it, what bothered me wasn’t how _much_ the person talked; it was what they were talking _about_.

Their topics of discussion never really intrigued me, I suppose, but every time Santana would open her mouth, I couldn’t help but stop everything I was doing just to hear her voice.

"I gave up on her,” Santana said, as she ran her fingers through Brennan's shaggy fur. “So, she went to go be a hero, and succeeded.”

I didn't know who Santana was talking about. Most times I didn't, actually. But I listened to her words anyway, just in case. I absorbed every word she tossed my way, grateful to just have a friend for once in my life that wasn't my dad.

"I have a question," I cut in, raising my pointer finger.

Lifting a brow, Santana smirked. "Knock yourself out."

"Why Brennan?"

A strange look flashed across Santana's face, but as soon as it was there, it vanished. "William Joseph Brennan Jr.," she responded in a monotone, as if she were only telling me the time of day. "U.S. Supreme Court associate justice from 1956 to 1990. He was a New Jersey Supreme Court judge from 1952 to 1956 before being appointed to the U.S. Supreme Court by President Eisenhower."

I knew Jersey was her hometown, but other than that I didn't understand the significance until Santana added, "My dad used to be a judge." She shrugged her shoulders before scratching behind Brennan's floppy ears.

The dog wagged his tail joyfully and cuddled further into Santana's lap.

* * *

 

_18 days **before** winter..._

"I'm not good at lying, but I am very good at avoiding the truth," Santana said, clacking the salt and pepper shakers together, as if to make them kiss.

I clicked my tape recorder off, unsure if I still wanted to make Santana a part of my documentary. "I don't think you're taking this seriously."

Santana gaped at me as she lowered the shakers to the table.  "What do you mean?" she asked, narrowing her big brown eyes on me. "This is the most serious I've ever been."

"I noticed awhile ago that when things get too personal, you have a habit of deflecting, thus the kissing salt and pepper shakers."

Letting out a weary sigh, Santana slumped back in her seat and said, "You're marvelously observant. That's a very sexy trait, you know?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not!" she exasperated, eyes widening. "When we first started this little project, I thought it was gonna be cool, but all you're doing is sucking the fun out of everything. I mean, why can't I let the salt and pepper shakers make out a little bit during the video portion?"

I closed my eyes tight for a moment and breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth. "Because it doesn't even apply to what you're talking about," I said slowly, making sure to clearly annunciate each and every word.

"And that's what's cool about it," Santana reasoned, her brown eyes glowing with excitement. "My story and the shakers have _nothing_ to do with each other. It's genius, I tell you. _Pure_ genius."

I stared at her for a moment, a little annoyed, but mostly just confused. "Here's a helpful tip," I began, looking her straight in the eyes so that I could almost see my own reflection. "Always let the right hand know what the left is doing. That way, they don't get confused and bump into each other, like we're doing right now."

"You have dirt in your eyes," Santana muttered petulantly, crossing her arms over her chest. "You only ever see the bad in things."

" _I_ see the bad in things?" I questioned in disbelief, throwing my hands up in exasperation. " _You're_ the one always thinking about death and morbid shit."

Scandalized, Santana pointed a finger at me. "You cussed."

"Yeah, well," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. Back then, I rarely cursed out loud, only within my head. I felt it was highly unnecessary, especially with so many other adjectives in the dictionary awaiting my use. Santana was still staring at me, awaiting an explanation, so with a roll of my eyes, I said, "So, what? I said shit. Big deal. I'm angry."

"No, you're not," Santana argued, standing up from her seat.

"Oh, so, now you're telling me how to feel?" I asked, rubbing my temples in frustration as Santana rounded the table and slid into the booth beside me.

She stayed a few inches away from me for a moment without saying a word before scooting sideways. I rolled my eyes and moved away from her. The more I retreated, though, the more she chased after me until I had no more room left and was practically squashed against the wall of the café.

When Santana snorted in laughter, I couldn't help but laugh along with her. What could I do, really? She's infectious.

"Are you still mad at me?" she whispered, ducking her head to try and catch my eyes.

I sighed, exhausted at fighting with her, because this was actually a pretty stupid argument if you really think about it. "No," I said, snuggling into Santana's side as she threw an arm over my shoulders. "I could never stay mad at you."

When Santana kissed me on the cheek, I tried my hardest not to blush.

* * *

 

_3 days **into** winter..._

I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, and no matter how hard I tried, the tears just wouldn't stop. If I drowned, somehow, I don't think I would very much care.

My father was worried about me, that much I could tell, but there was nothing he really could do for me anyway. Any form of comfort just hurt too much; it stung my bones, made my skin itch, and more than anything, it made my eyes water, which is not something I needed back then.

My dad twiddled his thumbs in the doorway. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Yes."

"Do you want some water?" he asked, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. "I heard that helps when you've been crying a lot."

"No thanks, Daddy," I mumbled, turning over to stuff my face into the pillow. "I just want to be alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's okay if it doesn't all add up yet. That's the point, really. In future chapters, everything will begin to merge and glue and mix.


	3. The Peasant and the Gypsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smiled up at me, as if I had just said something truly meaningful. Santana used to do that a lot back then.

Before Santana happened, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I had no degrees, no skills, no education, no money, no hope.

Unable to concentrate on my studies because of the devastation over my parents’ separation, I dropped out of high school during my junior year and never looked back until Santana forced me to.

The best plan for me at the time was to go back to school to get my GED. Other than that, I had nothing to look forward to. I had nothing going for me. That was until my dad teasingly mentioned, “You sure waste a lot of time asking questions but never get any answers.”

A light bulb clicked on in my head and never dimmed down, and that's when I decided to make a documentary.

I could tell my father blamed himself for my failed education. The stress of everything really put me in a tailspin, sure, but my failure wasn't anybody's fault but my own.

I was weak, small, feeble, but a project like this was the very thing that could pull me out of my funk and bring back the passion I had lost when my mother left.

I went to the park, the mall, the aquarium, the coffee shop, the grocery store, the hospital. But of all these places, the coffee shop was most important, because that's where I met Santana Lopez.

Loud, crazy, and frustratingly outgoing Santana Lopez. I wanted to make a documentary, but I had no filming equipment, and that is where she came in.

* * *

_55 days **before** winter..._

She was only a mystery when she wasn't speaking. Talking in circles wasn't really her thing. When Santana said something, you should know it was something important.

Santana didn't waste words. She didn't waste life. To her, life was something very precious. I never really understood her obsession with living every moment to the fullest until it was too late. I never understood her pet peeve with my tendency to never finish anything either.

I never finished school, I never finished my coffee, and I almost never finished our documentary. If she knew of that last one, she'd probably be really mad at me.

I was facing the window; pen in hand, notepad opened to the first page, tape recorder on and alert, when she began to speak.

"Left home when I was seventeen," she said, restlessly twiddling her thumbs.

"Where's home?" I asked.

"I thought you didn't ask questions."

Sighing, I clicked my pen and rested my notepad on the table. "If you're going to be this vague, I don't really have much of a choice, now do I?"

With a contemplative look, Santana nodded slowly, but I could tell she didn't hear a word I said by the slight grin stretching across her cheeks. "Can I ask _you_ a question?"

"Shoot," I sighed, flipping my notepad shut.

"Where's your camera?"

I peered up from under my lashes. "What?"

"Your camera. You can't shoot a movie without a camera," Santana said, shrugging her shoulders. "It's plain logic."

"Well," I cleared my throat. "I was going to invest in a camera as soon as I had all of my information."

"Bullshit."

I raised my eyebrows. _"Excuse me?"_

"You have no plan," she continued, taking a sip of her lukewarm cup of joe. "Just sayin'."

I folded my arms over my chest. Santana always had a way of bring out the absolute worst in me. But then again, I was always my best when she was around as well.

 "And how do you know?" I asked, lips pursed.

She shrugged. "You don't really look like the type to plan is all."

I was just about to tell her that she wouldn't know anything because she barely even knew me, but before I could even open my mouth, Santana sat forward in her seat and said, "Tell me, _Quinn_ , are you a go-with-the-flow kind of girl?"

Truthfully, that wasn't something I really ever thought about, but I was sure thinking now. "I...I guess."

Santana hummed to herself as she set her styrofoam cup down on the table. "So, you're filming a film without film."

I sighed, "It's a docum-"

"Quinn, it's your lucky day," she rambled on, without even pausing to let me speak, and for some odd reason, that absolutely infuriated me. "Good thing you have me, or else you'd be screwed."

Remember when I said that we didn't immediately get along? Well, this is why. Santana and I knocked heads like no one else. Santana, who always thought she was right, had a very hard time admitting when she was wrong.

And I, who was secretly envious of the life Santana left behind, hated it whenever she'd bring up her higher education. She'd never brag about it though; that wasn't really the problem. Santana was probably the most humble person I knew. Surprisingly, she hated being fed with a silver spoon.

"I grew up in a nice privileged home where my parents loved me, cared for me, provided for me, and smothered me to no return, so I left to find myself," Santana said, once I turned the tape recorder back on. "Was rich, homeschooled, graduated at sixteen, finished college at Harvard a few years later. Super high IQ. Ask me anything and I'll know it."

And that was her interview. She told me all what she wanted to say and everything else remained a mystery.

* * *

Chasing our tails became a regular occurrence for Santana and I. We circled around and around the city, like a pack of sharks, hunting down story after fucking story. All I carried was a pen, notepad, and tape recorder, but Santana lugged around a huge backpack full of camera equipment.

I still don't know what she did it for. Santana was supposed to be on a road trip, searching for the secret to death or something, but she stuck by my side anyway. Sometimes, I like to pretend it was because she saw something in me that made her want to stay.

It's not an easy feat, convincing a runaway to stop running away from their problems, but I did it. Seattle wasn’t really a place people would stop on a road trip cross-country, but something brought Santana to me that autumn when I needed her most, and I’ll forever be indebted to that secret something.

Santana was the most contradictive person I’d ever met. For someone who believed in living life to the fullest, she sure loved to discuss the prospect of death. Sometimes it made me uncomfortable, but only because of how much it really made me think.

Look, I’m no philosopher or anything, but Santana had me asking a lot of nonsense questions about the universe that autumn. What does existence mean? If you’re not thinking, are you real? What is reality? What reactions shape our world? What true evidence do we have that the past ever really happened?

Not only did I wonder about questions that could never possibly be answered, but I also wondered about Santana’s family, the reasons why she wanted to escape that life so badly, and what it _really_ was she left behind.

* * *

_49 days **before** winter..._

"Are you sure you're allowed to park here?"

"If a cop tickets me, he'll be ticketing a dead man."

I didn't understand what she meant by that comment at the time, like most things about her, so instead of questioning her, I just nodded along and continued to listen to her story.

"My van broke down here in Seattle," Santana continued, as we stood in the alleyway in front of said van. "Got a job working as a barista to pay off the debt, and here I am."

Asking Santana questions always felt like intruding, but I wanted to know her, so pressing the red button on my tape recorder, I held the contraption up to my lips and asked, "How did you get all the way here from New Jersey?"

_Santana: [sigh] My grandpa died._

_Me: Oh, I'm sorry._

_Santana: See, that's your problem._

_Me: Pardon?_

_Santana: [snicker] You're too gentle, too thin-skinned. Where's the growl? Where's the bark, the bite? What you should say is this, ‘After he died, did your gramps turn into a genie and grant your wish to come to this god-awful state?'_

_Me: You are so insensitive. [beat] Especially to yourself._

_Santana: [snort] Sensitivity wastes time. If we were all more blunt, everyone would have a thicker skin, and we'd have a whole lot more accomplished in this goddamn country._

_Me: [scoff] Well, why are you here?_

_Santana: If you haven't noticed, I work here._

_Me: And now for the real reason..._

_Santana: Bite. I like it. [beat] Had to get away. As far away as possible._

_Me: And that was Seattle?_

_Santana: I'm not staying here long. This is just a short pit-stop until I get someone to fix my van._

_Me: And you own it?_

_Santana: Sure do. [sigh] She's a beaut, isn't she?_

_Me: [monotone] Gorgeous._

_Santana: I named her Milagros [beat]. Means miracle in Español._

_Me: Why miracle?_

_Santana: Because it's a miracle I got her to start in the first place. Little fucker doesn't cooperate sometimes. [chuckle] Surprised I got her as far as I did without her conking out on me._

* * *

_41 days **before** winter..._

"Why are you here?" I asked one day, while we were waiting on line in the grocery store.

"You...invited me," Santana said slowly.

"No, I mean—why are you here, in _Seattle_ of all places?"

"Oh." Santana shrugged as she rifled through the packages of gum on the side of the aisle. "I already told you why," she muttered, picking up a pack of _Orbit_. "My van broke down."

"In Nebraska," I began, quirking an eyebrow, "weren't you a grease monkey? Shouldn't you be able to fix your own vehicle?"

She smiled, amused. "Right, well. That was months ago."

"You know what I think?" I asked her, and when Santana shook her head, I grinned wryly and said, "I think you want to be in this sad, rainy city."

"And why would I want that?"

"Because you like me," I concluded, looking her right in the eyes, wanting her and begging her to challenge me.

Instead of arguing with me, for once, Santana ducked her head and blushed. _"What?"_ she snorted, rolling her eyes to the ground. "Get over yourself."

"I meant as a friend," I added, smiling knowingly as the line moved forward.

Santana finally glanced back up at me with a conflicted look, as if she didn't know what she wanted to say or do. "Yeah," she said, shrugging a shoulder. "That's what I meant too."

Santana may have been a genius, she may have been a child prodigy, but that didn't mean I wasn't alert, perceptive, or had a lack of common sense. I knew she was a lesbian, I knew she had a crush, and I knew this crush was on me. Oddly, I was fucking flattered.

"So, you _don't_ like me as a friend?" I asked again, continuing to push her buttons.

Santana swallowed visibly. "Of course I do," she said after a moment of hesitation. "I was just...joking around."

Bullshit was on the tip of my tongue, but I held it there and moved forward in line.

* * *

 

How did I know she had a thing for me? I think the better question is how could I _not_ know? It wasn’t that Santana was totally obvious with it, but when it comes to the little things, I almost always take notice.

For one, she knew my coffee order, and she always paid despite my refuting, even when she was flat out broke. She always told me the truth. How did I know? Well, whenever Santana told the truth, it just sort of came out. There was no hesitance. There was no pausing for thought. There just was.  
  
She worked hard to impress me, even when it looked like I wasn't paying attention. She’d make jokes about scientific theories and historical philosophies, just to get a laugh out of me, no matter how small.

And in a roundabout way, she always managed to sneak a compliment somewhere into our conversations. Even when the compliments bordered on insulting, she still slipped them in whenever she could.

* * *

_16 days **before** winter…_

She was always there for me. When I was sad, she held my hand. When I was angry, she kissed me on the cheek. When life seemed impossible, she gave me reasons why _everything_ is possible. And when it rained, she was always there to hold an umbrella over my head. And believe me, it rained a lot in Seattle.

“Wondering about death is out of curiosity,” Santana whispered into my ear, speaking quitely under the heavy rainfall. “But killing yourself to test a theory is out of fear of how life will handle your inevitable end.”

On a damp park bench, in the middle of the pouring rain, we were debating one of Santana’s favorite topics: death. She had just finished a book called _The Inner Thought and Outer Mind of Philosophical Endings,_ and it was literally all she talked about for five days after. I didn’t mind, really. I liked listening to her speak, even if it was about nirvana or heaven or hell or reincarnation or anything else she could possibly come up with.

It wasn’t too cold out, but Santana cuddle in my side anyway as she held the purple umbrella above our heads. Either she really liked contact, or she really like contact with _me._

“I just wonder sometimes,” she trailed off, nudging her colorful, wet rain boots against mine. “To kill oneself, you must really not like the world you’re living in; both physically and mentally.”

“And emotionally,” I added, lightly stomping my foot into a shallow puddle.

She smiled up at me, as if I had just said something truly meaningful. Santana used to do that a lot back then. “And metaphorically,” she said, wrapping her arm around my waist, and right then, in that short moment, that quick decision when I had leant into her side without a second thought, I should’ve known she meant everything to me.

I should have known.

* * *

_13 days **before** winter..._

"What's in New Jersey anyway?" I asked, zipping up my coat as it got even colder in the back of Santana's van.

She refused to put the heat on. _Soaks up too much gas_ , she said. _The fuel here in Seattle is fucking expensive_ , she said. _This way, we can cuddle more_ , she flirted.

I didn't care either way. Personally, I loved the cold weather. As long as I had my mittens, I was fine and dandy. Santana's arms around me weren’t unhelpful either, I suppose.

She wore a knit hat over her head to cover her red ears. Whenever it was cold like this, both Santana's ears and lips would turn super red, and I liked it like that, because the redder her lips looked, the plumper they looked. And I liked it when her lips were plump.

Santana didn’t even have to consider my question before she began listing off in a monotone, "Jersey Shore, Italians, pepper fields, broken bridges, silver platters, right on red, and gas station attendants.” She shrugged, careless, so I started to wonder more.

"Why did you leave there?" I asked. "Didn't you like it?"

"Well, it was my house, but it wasn't _home_. I liked it in Massachusetts where I went to school, but I needed to go farther," she explained, nibbling on her lower lip. "I didn't exactly plan on stopping here, but I'm so glad I did."

I felt her looking at me, but I fought the urge to meet her eyes. Every glance she ever sent my way was loaded with a type of passion I'd never be able to reciprocate.

"To be a Jersey girl," I murmured, just talking aloud for the heck of it.

Santana sighed and nuzzled her nose into my neck. " _Was_ a Jersey girl," she whispered. "Been thinking about settling somewhere new lately."

I didn't say anything in response to that. And I didn't need to, it seems, because she never ended up staying anyway.

* * *

I was shattered. Maybe Santana was wrong. Maybe I wasn't a backwards tornado. I seemed to be messing everything up, tearing everything apart. Like I said before, I am no healer, and the very idea that Santana thought I was is devastatingly hysterical.

That autumn, we interviewed people, got into mischief, shared our pasts, lived and learned, healed, pushed the limits, helped each other, made promises, made our movie, made our mark.

This was our journey, in a way. We met people, lived their lives through a story of words, words, and more words.

Although I shared everything with her, some part of me still felt she was keeping a piece of herself hidden. There were things she wasn't telling me. Dark things. Things she had run far, far away from. Every time I mentioned New Jersey, Santana would always find some way to either change the subject or insult the state. I didn't know why back then. All I knew was that she had escaped, and she was pretty well set on never returning.

Maybe it was something she had left unfinished, I always thought to myself. After all, that right there was Santana's biggest fear.

* * *

_11 days **before** winter..._

I only got to _really_ kiss her twice that autumn, which kind of sucks, considering the first time was totally an accident on her part. It wasn't an “ _oops, I tripped and fell into your lips”_ sort of thing, but more of an “ _I got caught up in the moment”_ sort of thing.

It was a normal evening, like any other, I suppose, when Santana literally just planted one on me. She was closing up shop that night since Mr. Hanky Panky—as Santana liked to call him—had to go home early for some family thing.

Throughout our friendship that autumn, I told Santana multiple times that I was straight, but that never seemed to ward her off. It was probably because I made the mistake of telling her that she was cute, just not my type. It gave her hope, in a way; not to change me, but to show me that I had other options.

Even though I was straight, Santana never hid her affection for me. I guess being out and proud meant not hiding anything about her sexuality, including who she was attracted to, which just happened to be me. It was never really awkward between us, even though I knew she had a major crush on me. Well, that was until the night she kissed me in the storage room.

Honestly, we _had_ been flirting. To me, it was all completely innocent, but I guess it meant more than that to Santana. With every sly comment I made, Santana took another step toward me until I was totally cornered.

Our breaths mingled as she closed in on me, and all I could do was close my eyes and shift back as she leaned forward. As soon as her lips touched mine, it felt like nirvana. It felt like my whole life had led up to this moment. It felt like Sunday mornings in the park.

But it scared me. I just had to get out of there, and with that in mind, I pushed her away with as much strength as I could obtain and scurried all the way to the other side of the storage room in a panic.

" _OhmyGod, I'm so sorry_ ," she whispered, as soon as she realized what she had just done.

She held a hand up to her mouth, as if savoring the taste of my lips on hers. My lips trembled, having the same exact reaction. Tears welled up in Santana's eyes, and I just couldn't look her at her anymore. It was too hard to keep pretending like this. I was no actress; if I was, I surely wouldn't be stuck here in a coffee shop storage room in Seattle, Washington.

She kept repeating that she was sorry over and over again as I stood in the opposite corner, shaking my head back and forth as if there was a spider in my hair or something. After awhile, the _sorrys_ began to jumble in my head, and I just couldn't take it.

"It's fine, it's— _fine_ ," I spoke over her, as Santana repeatedly apologized, her face crumbling up in mortification and embarrassment and whatever else was going through her mind. Reaching out, I grabbed her hands in mine in order to gain her attention, softly whispering, "It's fine, really. Hell, this is all _my_ fault."

Reassurance was the only way to calm her. Her glassy, brown eyes were so dark it felt as if I was staring into the night sky.

My heart broke into a million pieces as I said, "I knew you liked me, but I flirted back anyway. I should be apologizing for leading you on."

Santana shifted slightly and dragged her eyes off to the wall so she wasn't looking directly at me. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't gay," she whispered.

This confession surprised me; Santana was the proudest and most shameless person I knew. "Why?" I asked, disbelief coating my words. "You're perfect just the way you are, Santana."

"I _love_ women," she said, tears welling up in her eyes as she continued to look towards the far wall, never at me. "But I _hate_ falling in love with them."


	4. The Leper and the Loner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absolute silence surrounded us down in the basement, but it wasn't weird or anything. Even though Santana had randomly kissed me and we had never talked about it, nothing was weird. No, not at all. Okay, maybe it was a little weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a Grey's Anatomy shout-out somewhere in here. See if you can find it ;)

_52 days **before** winter..._

_Me: Is it recording?_

_Santana: Is there a red light blinking beside the lens?_

_Me: Uh, yeah._

_Santana: [scoff] Then, yes, it's recording, tough stuff._

_Me: [beat] Why do you have to be so aggressive?_

_Santana: Sorry if I feel the need to answer dumb questions with sarcastic remarks._

_Me: Ugh, you’re such a…[yelling] Cut!_

Needless to say, we spent another half hour arguing after Santana cut off the camera. It usually went like this every time we filmed. Santana had a _vision_ for how this documentary would turn out, apparently, but it was my idea in the first place.

I didn't want any flashy effects or music in the background or complicated transitions between shots, but Santana had taken a movie production class a few years back and this was the first project where she was actually able to utilize her talents.

I guess it's not really necessary to say we were polar opposites. But they say opposites attract, so it's no wonder we clicked, though it did take some time. Santana, being the stubborn person she was, didn't want to listen to any of my suggestions. And I, being just as hardheaded, would not budge on any of my beliefs or well-crafted ideas.

It wasn't until I learned of Santana's crush on me that we really started to connect. She tried to hide it from me for as long as possible until, _fuck it_ , she said; her words, not mine.

After that, everything kind of just fell into place. She was there for me, and I for her. It was give and take with the two of us, and I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

* * *

_36 days **before** winter..._

"Praise The Lord and pass the ammunition," Santana slurred, jutting her hand out.

Clumsily, I pulled the bottle of vodka out of her reach and narrowed my eyes on her the best I could. "Did you just quote Looney Tunes?"

"Donald Duck," she said proudly with this adorable, crooked grin.

Santana was just too cute sometimes, even when she was obnoxiously drunk and draped sloppily off the side of my bed.

We were getting drunk for no particular reason. After brainstorming for an hour at the café, I had suggested we go to my house to hang out and relax. Santana thought that was a great idea. Actually, now that I think about it, Santana usually always went along with whatever I suggested—when it wasn’t about the documentary, at least.

Whether it was because she had a crush on me, or because she trusted my input, I have no idea, but it was nice having someone around that wasn't my father for a change, so I welcomed her company whenever I could.

I didn't have a TV or anything interesting in my room, so after a while of silence as we passed the sloshing bottle of alcohol back and forth, I suggested that we go upstairs to play some videogames in the living room.

There was no response at first, so I glanced her way from where I was sat on the carpet. Santana looked so out of it that I couldn't help but laugh at her.  After a moment, Santana burped and laughed too.

"Mother, _please_ , let me rest here," she sighed tiredly, rubbing her stomach in circles with a disgruntled moan.

"Another Looney Tunes quote?"

Santana smiled wryly as she stared up at the ceiling. "You got it, tough stuff."

"Why do you call me that?" I asked, curious.

"¿Qué?” she said, shaking her head as she slowly sat up and rested her back against the headboard.

“Tough stuff,” I repeated as I lied down on the carpet and tucked my hands under my head. "You've been calling me that since we first met, so I was just wondering..."

Smiling crookedly, she said, "You've got bite. More bite than Brennan, even.”

"Heh," I breathed out, continuing to stare up at the ceiling, because, man, was that a load of bullshit.

I had no bite back then.

But apparently Santana could read my mind, because instead of leaving it like that, she continued with, "Seriously though. You're tougher than you think, Quinn." Sighing restlessly, she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're actually one of the strongest people I've ever met."

Does a strong person drop out of high school? Does a strong person avoid their no-good mother like the plague? Does a strong person waste their life in their father's dusty, old basement?

If that was the definition of strong, you better believe I was about to turn into the goddamn Hulk.

I didn't say anything for awhile and neither did Santana. We both just stared at our separate portions of the ceiling in deep thought. A period of five minutes ticked by, and I thought that was the end of the conversation, until Santana cleared her throat and scooted towards the edge of the mattress. I glanced up when she appeared above me with a contemplative look.

"Those snobs at Harvard and Yale are the weaklings. They don't know what it's like to really live. _Living_ ," she sighed, resting a hand under her chin as she perched herself up on her elbow. "Seventy-five percent of the time this earth is a scary place. And the other twenty-five percent is just a waste, because if you're not scared, you're not taking a risk, and where's the fun in that?"

Maybe I had drunken a little too much vodka, I reasoned with myself, because Santana's words were beginning to jumble in my head. "Santana, Santana, Santana," I murmured, smiling slyly at her upside down.

Santana lied down on her stomach and cocked her head to the side. "How drunk are you right now on a scale of one to ten?"

"Um," I mumbled in thought, closing my eyes to concentrate. "Is one the highest?"

"Ten's the highest."

"Then I'm a three."

Santana snorted in disbelief. "What's the significance of the Liberty Bell?"

I peeked open an eye and looked at her in confusion. "But why-"

"Just answer the question," she urged.

"It's where..." I began, biting the corner of my lower lip. "It's where Benjamin Franklin lived."

"Okay," Santana drawled, laughing softly to herself as she capped the bottle of vodka. "I think you've had enough of this tonight, tough stuff."

I smiled lazily. "You need a nickname too."

"San works," she said, shrugging a shoulder.

"No, that's boring," I replied, carefully squinting my eyes at her. "How about...Tana Banana?"

Furrowing her brows, Santana adorned a straight face and said, "I really like you, but hell no."

* * *

Who stopped at Seattle on a trip cross-country, I thought to myself.

Apparently, Santana Lopez.

"I'm not running _away_ from something," she insisted, after I implied that she was the weak one out of the two of us during yet another meaningless argument. "I'm running _towards_ something."

Another disagreement, all because of that damn dog. Whenever I think about death now, the first word that pops into my mind is Brennan.

I think of ways I could have stopped what happened. How I could have stopped Santana from keeping that stray dog in the first place.

But then, I realize I'm sharing the blame. I'm trying to settle my guilt by placing the blame on a dog when what happened was really all my fault.

* * *

_32 days **before** winter…_

That autumn, we interviewed a total of two-hundred and fifty two distinctively memorable individuals. Of course both Santana and I had our favorites. Each interview and story touched us in a different way. But somehow, I know for a fact that the one-hundred and seventh interview was one of the most introspective and heartwarming of them all.

His name was André, like the giant. He was a fighter and lived everyday to the fullest. We interviewed him at the Seattle Grace Children's Hospital. He was only eight years old and had leukemia. He wore a red pirate bandana over his bald head. There was nothing wrong with his left eye, but he wore an eye patch anyway to complete the look.

We had to ask his mother for permission in order to interview him, but she said it was up to her son, so when we asked him, he wondered, "What's a documentary?"  
  
Digging through my backpack in search of a pencil, I explained, "It's a collage of interviews and videos that factually record real and heartfelt events.”

In response, André tilted his head sideways and crinkled his freckled nose in confusion. Santana shot me a look, but all I could do was shrug my shoulders.

If you can’t tell, I wasn’t very good with kids.  
  
Hesitantly sitting down on the edge of André’s bed, Santana smiled and said, "That's an awesome eye patch, dude."  
  
"Thanks," he replied bashfully, adjusting the strap around his head. "My dad got it for me so I could look like a real pirate."  
  
"You're not a real pirate?" Santana gasped, covering her mouth with her hand, and when André laughed and shook his head no, Santana raised her eyebrows and said, "Could’ve fooled me."  
  
She was a natural with children. You would have never guessed by looking at her, but Santana could be very sensitive to other's feelings when she really wanted to. Being in the hospital sometimes made me feel uncomfortable, but Santana made it look so easy; sort of like she'd been in hospitals a lot in the past.  
  
With a patience I never expected her to have, Santana carefully explained what a documentary was in elementary terms and even showed André how to use her camcorder. There was this light in her eyes as she taught André how to record and playback videos. I couldn’t help but admire from afar, because what Santana was doing was truly amazing, as she made this little boy’s day.  
  
With blue eyes focused to where Santana was filming behind her camcorder, André smiled a toothless smile and said, "I make sure to smile every day, because I never know which one might be my last."   
  
My heart broke, and by the look on Santana's face, I could tell hers was breaking too.

* * *

_29 days **before** winter..._

"I'm the oldest, so I get to make the decisions," Santana announced, and I flushed, already sensing another argument on the horizon.

"What?" I scoffed, knitting my eyebrows together. "You can't be _that_ much older than me."

Santana leaned across the counter and grinned widely. "I'm twenty-three," she pointed out. "How old are you?"

I blanched. "You're twenty-three?" I whispered, lowering my voice. I swear to this day that my heart skipped a beat. As Santana nodded smugly, I racked my brain for something to say, but the only thing that came out was, "Well, then—I'm twenty-four."

"Bullshit," Santana deadpanned, still smiling from ear to ear. "You're like…twenty-two tops, right?"

"Actually..." I lolled my head sideways. "Wrong."

"Really?" she wondered aloud, crunching her nose up in confusion. "Then how old _are_ you?"

"Um..." I scanned my eyes over the counter. "Nineteen, but...I'll be twenty in December, so."

"You're only _nineteen_?" she asked, much louder than she probably should have considering she was still on the job. I ducked my head and blushed hotly at the shock written across her features. I never thought it was that big of a deal, but apparently Santana didn't agree as she muttered, " _Christ_ , I have a crush on a fucking baby. This is something unreal."

"I am _not_ a baby," I replied indignantly, placing a hand on my hip. "I'm just very mature and cultured for my age, and that's probably why you thought I was older than I really am."

Santana considered me, dragging her brown eyes from my jean clad legs all the way up to my face. "Touché, tough stuff," she said in a singsong, before reaching forward to pinch my cheeks. I smacked her hand away with a pout as she whispered, "Touché."

* * *

_15 days **before** winter..._

Santana's van smelled like a mixture of trail mix, dirty socks, and Lysol, as if she used the air freshener as some sort of last resort effort to mask the scent permeating throughout the musty vehicle.

"Sorry about the odor," she said, crawling into the back of the van after me.

As I sat down in a beanbag chair near the end of the van, I felt like I had traveled back in time to the sixties or something. It was dark inside until Santana switched on a flashlight. As she hurriedly threw out random pieces of trash to help tidy up the place, I took in the ancient junk she had scattered around.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a covered-up object sitting in the corner.

Peering up, Santana glanced toward where I was pointing and smiled wryly. "That, my dear friend, is what I like to call a blast from the past."

I didn't understand what Santana meant until she uncovered the mysterious object. "A record player," I breathed, astounded at the beauty of it. Sure, I'd seen others before, but never one in such good condition.

Santana ushered me over with a wave of her hand. "Like the van, it belonged to my gramps," she said, carefully running her fingers through the dust. "He wasn't like the rest of my family, who were always so caught up in everything except what really mattered. He was the one who taught me how to live."

I took in her expression. She was neither smiling nor frowning, but she looked content. Thinking back, I wish I would have asked more about her grandfather, but before I could, she was already crawling to the front of the van, so I just shut up and followed her lead.

Santana plopped down in the passenger seat, so I slumped down beside her behind the wheel. It felt weird being this high up, almost like I was driving an eighteen-wheeler.

"You want some tunes?" Santana asked as she reached forward and jammed her thumb against a button on the radio.

Loud rock music spilled from the speakers and rattled my brain, though Santana didn't look too bothered by the volume as she nodded her head to some indie band playing throughout the van.

"I'm entrusting you with the family jewels," she said next, and when I glanced up, there was a chain of keys being rattled in front of my face.

I raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was broken down.”

“I’m a grease monkey, remember?” she said, looking at me with a smirk. “I can fix anything.”

It’s kind of bittersweet, thinking about it now, that Santana helped fix me when I was still in the process of breaking. If I could have fixed her, I would have. Too bad I didn’t even know she needed fixing in the first because of the fact she hid her pain so well.

"You're letting me drive Milagros?" I asked in disbelief, because Santana once told me that she never let anyone drive her baby.

I must have been someone really special to her if she trusted me to drive her grandfather's van around the city, I realized. This was Santana telling me how she felt about me in her own weird, roundabout way.

"Isn't that what I just said?" she huffed, playing off her generosity, but I could tell how nervous she was; I could _always_ tell. "C'mon, take them before I change my mind."

I grabbed the keys she was dangling in front of my face before she could snatch them away.

As we drove down the crowded streets, Santana seemed a little stiff at first, as if she thought I would ram her van into a rail or skim a nearby car, but as we continued around the city, up and down block after block, I felt her relax beside me and begin to enjoy the ride.

"Not to draw assumptions or anything," I started hesitantly, turning the van down a near-empty road. "But it kind of smells like weed in here."

"I don't do drugs," was her immediate response, and I looked at her from out the corner of my eye as she continued with, "I've tried to get rid of the smell, but my gramps was a bit of a stoner back in the day."

"Oh," I murmured, checking my rearview mirror before looking back at the road. "You’ve never tried drugs before?"

"No," Santana replied dryly, rapping her knuckles against the glass window. "Crazy shit kind of runs in my family, so I try to stay as far away from that crap as possible."

* * *

_9 days **before** winter..._

"She flirted with anything that moved," I complained, laying my head in Santana's lap. "Actually, no, I'm pretty sure she'd flirt with a rock if it had something she wanted."

"Manipulative bitch," Santana muttered, combing her fingers through my hair soothingly.

I closed my eyes and hummed. "You can say that again."

"Manipulative bitch."

"Yeah, manipulative bitch," I echoed, sighing through my nose.

We were talking about my mom. I wasn't usually one for cursing but I have to admit it felt pretty good to release all of my frustration by calling my mom out on her shit.

After Santana's shift, we decided to head back to my place instead of work on the documentary. Santana was tired from work, so I probably would've agreed to go along with anything she wanted. It continually puzzled me why Santana remained in Seattle even after her van was repaired, but I never questioned it in fear of her one day leaving me.

Absolute silence surrounded us down in the basement, but it wasn't weird or anything. Even though Santana had randomly kissed me and we had never talked about it, nothing was weird.

No, not at all.

Okay, maybe it was a little weird, and maybe the silence was a little deafening, and maybe every glance Santana shot my way had me on edge, but she was still my best friend. I wasn't going to ditch her just because she had a momentary lapse in judgment.

It's just…it bothered me a little that I couldn't get that kiss out of my head. I knew I was straight, and I knew I didn't like Santana in that way, but every time I closed my eyes and revisited that moment in the storage room, my heartbeat would increase to an abnormal pace.

The way she looked at me, with such vulnerability in her eyes; I couldn't get that image out of my head no matter how hard I tried, and it seemed Santana couldn't either, because the next thing she said was, "I have no regrets about kissing you."

Damn, Santana was honest. You could say whatever you want about her, but when it came to how she felt about me, how much she liked me, she either always told the truth, or she blushed so hard I could tell without her even having to say anything.

I paused, swallowed thickly, and let out a breath of air. "But you said you were sorry," I pointed out, glancing up at her.

Santana's fingers stilled in my hair. "I'm sorry for freaking you out, yeah," she murmured, resting her head back. "But honestly, I've been wanting to kiss you since we met."

I closed my eyes again and didn't answer her. Clearly I didn't know what to say, so I remained silent in order to (1) avoid hurting her feelings, and (2) not sound like an idiot. The silence increased, and I could tell Santana was becoming impatient by the way her breathing faltered and hitched above me.

"I have to go," she whispered, shrugging out from under me, and I sighed as I scooted out of the way. Obviously I had been too quiet for too long on the subject. Here's another thing about Santana; she was the most testy and restless person I'd ever met.

Running a hand through her hair, Santana huffed, frustrated. "If I could control the way I felt, I would but-"

"Santana." I paused to inhale for my head was spinning. "I said it's okay-"

"But obviously it's not!" she exclaimed, pacing back and forth in front of my bed. "Just tell me I'm making you uncomfortable and I'll go. I'll walk right out the door and never—"

"It's not! It's not okay!" I shouted, standing up from the bed. Again, I closed my eyes and curled my hands into fists. The silence was heavy as I choked back tears and said, "It's not okay, because I can't get this kiss out of my mind. It's all I think about constantly. _You're_ all I think about constantly."

But when I opened my eyes, Santana was gone. I cursed under my breath as I ran up the stairs, but her van was gone as well. The only trace of her ever being there were the tire tracks on the road.

* * *

_5 days **into** winter..._

[The camera shifted back and forth from a white piece of paper to Santana's face and back to the white piece of paper as she tried to focus the lens. My hands trembled against the camcorder as I bit my bottom lip to hold in my tears.]

"This woman we're about to interview..." she began, smirking at the camera with a roll of her eyes. "Yeah, I can already tell she's going to be a wacko. I mean, look at her hair."

[The camera zoomed in on the woman sitting in a booth by the window, staring dazedly at her blueberry scone as if it just jumped off the plate and bit her. Santana was right; the woman did have a peculiar hairstyle. Instead of one ponytail, she wore three.

One on the top and three on the sides. Her hair was long, so the ponytails kind of just flowed all over the place. I wouldn't be surprised if some strands were floating around in her cup of coffee.]

"Don't let her hear you say that," I scolded, coming up beside her.

[A second later, the camera was focused on me. I quirked an eyebrow into the lens before smiling at something Santana probably either said or did. I was usually always nervous before interviews, but Santana had a way of making me feel comfortable in any anxiety-riddling situation.

The camera view shifted up and down slightly as Santana shrugged her shoulders.]

"I'm only speaking the truth, sister."

On screen, I cringed slightly. Of course I considered Santana as family in a way, but knowing she had a crush on me...it just felt weird for her to call me _sister_ of all things.

After a moment, I think she caught on to what I was thinking. To lighten the mood, she said, "Right. Not sisters. You know, just in case we end up in bed together, because _gosh_ , that'd be awkward."

I huffed, squeezing the bridge of my nose as Santana chuckled hysterically in the background. "You're extraordinarily cute," I murmured, smirking when Santana turned a bright shade of red at my admission.

[She let out a flourish of air that made the sound quality on the camera fuzzy for a moment.]

"Be still my heart," she sighed, most likely holding a hand up to her chest in mock affection.

Shoving the camera away from my flushed cheeks, I mumbled, "Oh, get over yourself."

[The camera cut off and went to black. I took a deep breath to prepare myself for the next scene. So far, so good, I told myself. So far, so good.

The strange woman with the three ponytails appeared on screen a few moments later. I wasn't in view, but I could hear my voice as I engaged the woman in polite conversation about her day, her blueberry scone, the weather, some politics I truly knew nothing about, and some other boring topics I came up with on the top of my head.]

Eventually I got the ball rolling, somehow, and the woman just kept talking and talking, which initially, is what I had wanted, but I could tell the woman's words were pissing Santana off for some reason. She seemed to stiffen as the strange woman continued to speak. All I could do was pretend to listen as the woman babbled on and on and on.

"Everyday my sister came home she was pregnant. I couldn't believe that whore. A disgrace, I tell you," the woman rambled, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "If I was Momma, I would've kicked her to the curb a long time ago. But Momma was a kind woman, bless her heart."

[I could practically hear Santana grinding her teeth behind the camera.]

"She had six children, all from six different men. None of the children knew their fathers," she continued, picking at the leftover pieces of her scone. "I don't even think my sister knew who their biological fathers were, which is just sad."

"No," Santana spoke up out of nowhere, lowering the camera some. " _You're_ sad."

The odd woman looked affronted, holding a hand up to her collarbone. She shifted her eyes back and forth between us, as if looking for an explanation to Santana's random outburst, but there was none.

Santana remained completely silent, stewing in her anger as I cleared my throat awkwardly somewhere off-screen. "Santana—"

"No, Quinn," she interrupted once again, jiggling the camera around in her frustration. "You know what, lady? You should be grateful you even have a sister in the first place. Not bitching about how many men she fucked, whose baby daddy is who, or how many gremlins she's given birth to. That shouldn't matter because she is your goddamn, fucking _sister_."

[There was a crash somewhere off-screen. I cringed in both the video and on my bed.]

" _Goddamnit_ ," Santana muttered as she shut the camera off.

[Again, the screen went black. With a sigh, I closed the camcorder and lied back in bed for the fifth day in a row.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings spoil stories, so I've chosen not to add any. Just don't be mad. Thanks ;)


	5. The Human and the Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I think I was blind. Only someone as relatively naïve as myself could have missed anything and everything and nothing all at the same time.

When you lose something, you feel sad. You feel upset and it stays with you for a while until you realize it's time to move on. But when that something is everything, well that's a completely different story.

If you lose everything, you feel empty. You feel dead. The purpose of living, of your existence, has suddenly disappeared and you can't think of any reason why you should still be alive.

Waking up in the morning soon becomes dreadful as all you can wait for is the moment you fall back to sleep.

Going to sleep at night soon becomes hopeful as all you wish for is to never wake up again.

When you lose everything, you might as well just lose yourself along with it.

_She_ was your everything.

Life wasn't supposed to end up this way. I was suppose to graduate from high school at the top of my class, smiling widely as I accepted my diploma and shook the principal's hand, my jaw going rigid from grinning for so long as I took picture after picture with my family members and friends. I was supposed to go to college on a full scholarship, prove everyone wrong.

But all I did was prove myself right. 

* * *

_27  days **before** winter..._

"One's impossible, two is dreary, three is company, safe and cheery."

And this was Santana's reasoning for keeping Brennan. It's not that I didn't like dogs, but that autumn I was selfish with my time with Santana. I suppose I wanted her all to myself.

Charmed by her quick wit and cute, poetic words, I decided that I could be charming too. "Call me a liar. Call me a fool. Just don't say that I should tell the truth," I replied in a singsong, smiling cutely, but all Santana did was pout and cuddle that rabies-infected dog further into her embrace.

I tried not to grimace.

"Are you trying to say you don't want widdle Brennan around?" she cooed, holding the dog up in her arms so that he was facing me. "Just look into these widdle eyes. He woves you."

At that point, there was nothing I could say that would make her give up that damn dog, so with a roll of my eyes, I teased, "So, you think I'm dreary?"

There was a pause where Santana only pursed her lips and stared down, as if thinking silently to herself _should I, or should I not? To be, or not to be? She loves me, she loves me not._ Eventually, she must have confirmed the former of the three.

"You're not dreary," Santana murmured, quirking the corner of her lip shyly. "I think you're… _dreamy_."

"Oh, shut up," I scoffed, punching her in the shoulder teasingly, though my cheeks did redden visibly at her honesty.

Pouting, Santana held Brennan even closer to her and away from me. "I'm being serious, though," she said, trying to hide her blush behind Brennan's fur. "You're my— _God_ , this is stupid—but...you're my dream girl, Quinn."

I tried to hide my smile, but the more I hid it, the harder it became to keep up this exhausting charade.

* * *

She found Brennan the mutt soon after we first met. He was a young dog; around two or three years old. He was small and skinny and feeble.

The dog was so beat up and bruised that we couldn't even figure out the breed. Santana had a soft spot for those in pain. You'd never assume this by the way she'd carry herself.

Although she was nice to me, Santana was not in the least a saint. Don't let her name fool you. She cursed like a sailor, whispered insults into my ear about everyone and anyone that passed by, and she shot down people's dreams when they were supposedly stupid and a waste of time, according to her.

"Why waste time dreaming when you can waste time living?" Santana used to say as she packed up her camera equipment after an interview.

I'd only shrug, because yeah, I understood what she meant in a way, but somehow it always felt like she was talking through them, right to _me_.

I was the one wasting my life in my father's basement. I was the one hanging around in my hometown while everyone else was moving on and heading off to college to begin their lives, while I was ruining my own.

Sure, I was only nineteen; I had a lot of life to live, but if it wasn't for Santana, I would have never turned into a backwards tornado.

I would have just been a forward one, destroying everything and anything in sight, including myself.

* * *

_23 days **before** winter..._

Santana's boss, Mr. Hank, let her park Milagros out in the alleyway beside the café. Mr. Hank wasn't the nicest of guys, but after awhile, I could tell he liked Santana. Like a daughter, of course, because he was around fifty, and if he liked her more than that that would be kind of gross.

Santana was the type of person who could grow on anyone. Maybe it was her smile, maybe it was her laugh, maybe it was her intensity. Or maybe it was just all three combined.

Whatever it was, though, everyone she met seemed to notice it. She was special, and most of the time, I just couldn't shake the feeling that she was too good to be true.

"You know how in the bible it says we're all sinners?" Santana asked as she stirred her vanilla caramel latte.

"I don't know the exact scripture," I said, shrugging a shoulder. "But yeah, I know what you're talking about. Why?"

"So, lying is a sin, right?" she asked hesitantly, and it wasn't until I peeked up from my notes that I realized how anxious she looked.

Furrowing my brow, I ducked my head to try and catch her eyes, but she wouldn't meet up with me. "I believe so, yeah," I answered as honestly as possible. "Are you okay, San—"

"And being gay is a sin too, right?"

"Well, I don't really—"

"So, I'm a double sinner."

"Santana," I sighed, raising my voice a little louder than necessary, but once I was sure Santana wouldn't keep rambling over me, I reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "You really don't know how good of a person you are, do you?"

Santana only shook her head. "You don't know me."

Her cold words sent a shiver up my spine. "Well, maybe not _completely_ ," I reasoned, keeping my hand right on top of hers. "But I'm a good judge of character. You're not a bad person, Santana."

"Good judge of character, huh?" she murmured, flexing the muscles in her hand under mine. "My dad used to be a judge, but all he ever did was break the law along with his—"

She stopped there and didn't continue for a long while, and I didn't ask her to. I remember the air feeling tense around us as I stared straight into those dark eyes of hers and saw something so real, I couldn't even make sense of it. She stared back, heavily, tiredly, but eventually broke the spell with a blink of her eyes. 

Clearing her throat, Santana slid her hand out from under mine to scratch the back of her neck awkwardly. "Do ever think about what comes after this?" she asked quietly, smoothing down the baby hairs at her scalp. When I leveled her with a puzzled look, she continued with, "Like, do you ever think about where we go after we die?"

I sat up a little straighter in my seat. Santana always had a pretty morbid view on life; she talked about death and the afterlife more than any person I'd ever met. She was just simply fascinated with this secret, thinking that once she died, she'd learn something spectacular that the living would never know.

"I think we should worry about that when the time comes," I said, instead of directly answering her question, because the truth was, yeah, I thought about it sometimes.

Who doesn't? The unknown is a scary thing, and more than not, it's kind of hard to _not_ think about what scares you the most.

"Until then," I continued, smirking coyly as I smoothed down Santana’s brown, unruly hair for her. "How about we just enjoy the now?"

Nodding her head, Santana smiled softly in agreement and took a sip of her coffee, though I could still see the worry in her eyes.

* * *

“Only put off tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone,” Santana read aloud from one of the many autobiographies shoved in the back of her van. “Pablo Picasso.”

I was hearing her words, of course, but I wasn’t _listening_ to her words. If I could go back in time, redo that whole entire autumn, and tell Santana everything I was feeling, all of my inner thoughts, no matter how embarrassing, _gosh_ , that would be the best gift I’d ever receive.

 If Santana had the courage to tell me every thought that ever crossed her mind about me, why couldn’t I do the same? What was I so damn afraid of? Her rejection? Obviously not, considering Santana would have taken me in a heartbeat.  

No, it was her love I feared; that unrelenting, unconditional crush she had on me was not only flattering, it was confusing, because _seriously_ , who could like me _that_ much? How could someone so smart and insightful, beautiful and vibrant actually like _me_?

 It just didn’t make sense, so in kind, I refused to believe it. 

* * *

_14 days **before** winter..._

I cursed under my breath when Santana paused the video game, because I was totally about to blow that zombie's head off. I glanced her way with a look of annoyance and muttered, "What the hell."

Santana licked her lips and sat cross-legged on the couch as she faced me. "Since I'm so much older and wiser than you, I have some advice."

"Oh, this should be good," I muttered, kicking my feet up on the coffee table.

"First off; tour guides are for people who can't read."

I smiled. "Noted."

Sitting up, Santana dug into her back pocket and pulled out a thick piece of string. "Second, never take this off," she instructed, tying the purple bracelet around my wrist. "I mean, unless a bum is threatening to kill you for it, then yeah, take it off and run."

I stifled my laughter as I admired the plain piece of string. Till this day, I still wear it. "Um—thanks, Santana."

"You're welcome," she smiled, seemingly proud of herself. "And last but not least; _never_ leave things unfinished."

Here she paused, but knowing Santana was the type of person to always finish what she started, I waited. Staring at the string tied around my wrist, Santana scratched behind her left ear and furrowed her brows.

"And never go to bed angry," she continued, screwing her lips to the side as she stared off into space, "because you never know what's going to happen tomorrow, years from now, or even in a heartbeat."

* * *

 There is something you should know about Santana and I. It can be explained in just one word, three syllables, and six letters.

_Family_.

We weren't blood, but that doesn't matter to me. Blood's thicker than water? Bullshit. If blood was so thick and important, my mother wouldn't have cheated on my father.

If blood was so luminous and brilliantly significant, my mother wouldn't have left me, choosing a man she barely even knew over the little girl she gave birth to once upon a time.

Now, I'm not saying all blood is bad. My dad is an amazing human being. Protective, charming, kind, loving; everything you could ever ask for.

Frustratingly sarcastic is how my dad would describe me, with a loving smile. Nauseatingly frustrating is how my mother would describe me, with a disinterested wave of her hand.

On occasion, I'd get angry and want to slap that hand away, but she's my mother, so instead I bundled up my hatred and nauseating frustration until I couldn't concentrate on anything else, not even school, and flunked right out.

It was my junior year. I was only seventeen years old, and I'd already failed at life.

So, I did what any realistically knowledgeable person would do; I dropped out. There was no way I was repeating the eleventh grade.

Pride got in the way of a lot of my decisions in the past. Pride, and always seeming to never finish what I started. That's the thing that irked Santana the most about me.

Santana, with her long brown hair and fierce dark eyes. Santana, with her spitfire mouth and way-too-quick wit. Self-destructive, outgoing, brutally honest Santana Lopez.

Many things about her irked me as well, but it doesn't feel right to talk about them yet, so for now I'll just hold my tongue.

Sometimes I think I was blind. Only someone as relatively naïve as myself could have missed anything and everything and nothing all at the same time.

Extraordinarily naive is how Santana would describe me, with an endearing smile that I was only ever granted access to. If I was extraordinarily naive, Santana was extraordinarily aware. Not a lot of people could see the wisdom in her, but I could.

With eyes that vibrant and alive, it's kind of hard not to notice her passion to live and love everyday for everyday, for what it was, _is_ , and everything in between.

The lines were blurry and the words were too far apart for me to understand at the moment how deep into our friendship I had fallen in just a few short months.

Autumn is the best time for building friendships. It's also a great metaphor for the end of friendships as well. The falling of leaves, empty trees, lonely blocks, damp and dreary roads.

Memories bleed harder than hearts sometimes. I wish to forget, but if I did accomplish this remarkable feat, rewind this tornado and fix the fragile town, then I wouldn't be the woman I am today.

Without Santana Lopez, I wouldn't be Quinn Fabray.

* * *

_Hours **before** winter..._

After a stupid argument with Santana about that damn dog, we went our separate ways for just a night.

_One_ night.

Thinking about it now, I can't even remember what the argument was about. Isn't that sad? Something so stupid that changed both of our lives forever isn't even memorable enough to have even mattered.

And if it doesn't matter now, it probably didn't matter then. All I know is that whatever we were arguing about turned my life upside down.

Now, because of that one night, I finish everything I start, all because of Santana.

It was raining. I was in my basement, still angry. About what? I couldn't tell you if I tried. I had been lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to my iPod play a song from the dock across the room, silently mouthing along to the words, when I got the call.

My phone had vibrated, and I immediately thought it was a text from Santana, apologizing for whatever she had said, because she was always the first to cave and say she was sorry.

Except it wasn't a text message because the vibrations didn't stop. My phone just kept shaking against my nightstand, so I reached over to see who it was.

I had no other friends but Santana and my father. It couldn't have been my father though. He was right upstairs. So, it must have been Santana, right?

Wrong.

Apparently, Santana had put me down as her emergency contact. It seems I was her only friend as well.

White noise filled my eardrums as the nurse on the phone told me that my friend was in an accident, that it didn't look good, that she was in critical condition, and to come to the hospital as soon as possible.

I hightailed it there.

* * *

_38 days **before** winter..._

Flipping her hair to the side, Santana looked into the lens with a devious smirk. "Take one," she said, pressing record on her tiny camcorder before pointing it my way. "And... _action!_ "

I quickly wiped my mouth, trying to make sure there were no more muffin crumbs left on my lips. "What are you doing?" I asked her, ducking out of the view of the camcorder.

"What does it look like? I'm recording you," she answered, zooming the lens in closer to my face. "Say hi, Q!"

Putting on my best straight face, I narrowed my eyes on the camera and muttered, "Hi."

Behind the camera, Santana raised her eyebrows and rotated her wrist, encouraging me to go on, but I didn't know what to say.

I was better at asking the questions, hearing the answers, recording the information, editing the takes. Sitting in front of the lens wasn't really my thing, and I think after another few moments of silence, Santana picked up on that as well.

" _C'mon_ , Q," Santana snorted, smiling from ear to ear. "Just don't sit there. _Say_ something."

"Like what?" I asked skeptically, my cheeks beet red.

Looking upwards, Santana took a moment to think about it before she said, "Tell me what you think of me."

"What?" I asked, unsure of where this was going.

Santana just laughed. "Tell me what you think of me," she repeated, eyebrows knit. "Like, what do you _really_ think?"

"I don't see how this—"

"Just answer the question, Q," Santana practically begged, a lot more serious than she was before. "I'm the one in charge now, so _you_ have to answer _my_ questions. So, what do you think about my eyes?"

I huffed. I really didn't want to do this now, especially in front of a recording camera. Santana used to tease me all the time. Agreeing to this would just be adding fuel to an already burning fire. And Santana sure had a lot of fire.

"I think..." I started hesitantly, and then bit my lip to think for a second. "I think your eyes are the perfect shade of brown. Not too dark, not too light. Like milk chocolate or something. They sparkle when you're happy. They tear up when you're tired. And they squint cutely in the sun. But they're never _ever_ dull."

There was only silence after my admission. For awhile, I couldn't even see the eyes I spoke so highly of, for they were hidden behind the camcorder. It was really nerve-racking for some reason.

I was very rarely nervous around Santana. She was always that person who made me feel like I belonged in this world; that no matter how bad things got, she'd always be there to reassure me and calm all of my many fears in life.

Without saying another word, Santana turned the camcorder around to face her and whispered, "If I never meet you in the next life, let me feel the lack." Then she closed the contraption, sat in on the table, and wiped the rest of the muffin crumbs off of my cheeks.  


	6. The Living and the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And with that, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike the others, this chapter is not in chronological order.

I was Clark Kent and she was my kryptonite. Not only did she make me weak but she made me human. She made me vulnerable. She made me open up about things I could never even tell myself in the mirror.

But, somehow, Santana was also my Superman. She was that strength hidden deep within me that I didn't even know I was missing, that I didn't even know I _had_ in the first place, until she made me face my fears, because what's the point of life if you're not scared, if you're not taking a risk?

* * *

_1 day **into** winter..._

After the doctor delivered the news, I crumbled into a heap on the floor. My father held me in his arms as I shook with sobs. I heard words from the doctor saying she put up a good fight. I heard words from my father, telling me it would be all right. I heard the whispers of other people in the ER waiting room, watching me with teary, sympathetic eyes, hoping and praying they’ll never have to be in my shoes.

But I couldn't focus on anything but the cold, hard floor of the hospital as I knelt down and wrapped my arms around my stomach. Nausea tickled at my throat. I thought I would throw up right there. My heart was so pounding hard against my chest. My head throbbed in pain.

I gasped for air. Tear drops dampened my jean clad thighs as my dad knelt down beside me. I kept my eyes closed and tried to focus on breathing, but the oxygen in the room felt like it was slowly decreasing as the seconds ticked by.

 _"Why?"_ I shouted repeatedly, banging my fists into the hard, tiled floor. " _Why did you do this, Santana?!"_

There was no answer, of course. None of us knew the secret. Again, I’m no philosopher, but I couldn’t help but wonder; what’s the point in all of this? Why give me a friend just to steal her away? Is there supposed to be a moral to this story? Where's the truth in this situation? Where's the virtue in this crisis?

I don't know how long I stayed down there on the floor. People came and left as I cried, my father remaining by my side the whole time. I still don't know what I would have done if he wasn't there to comfort me. The thought scares me to this day; has me waking up in the middle of the night, asking _what if, what if, what if_ , until I eventually close my eyes drift off back to sleep.

"Will I ever feel whole again, Daddy?" I gurgled through my tears, peering up into his sad, green eyes.

My father looked conflicted, as if he didn't know what to say in this situation. But then again, who would? There were tears in his eyes as well; big fat ones that would surely fall as soon as he’d blink his eyes or flutter his lashes.

"Little by little," he said, pulling me into his chest and wrapping his arms around me.

I let out a harsh sob and tucked my face into his shirt. I took a deep breath, held it in, and exhaled, "My little by little had been a little too late."

* * *

  _1 day **before** winter..._  


Somehow I feel that Santana knew she wouldn't live a long life. Somehow, Santana knew she would die young. Morbid, I know, but that's kind of how Santana was most of the time. Not in a _woe-is-me_ , depressing kind of way, but in an _I-wonder-what-else-is-out-there_ kind of way.

Although there were things she never told me, I feel the two of us really connected that autumn. We actually understood each other, and I think that was really important to me because I had never understood someone as well as Santana, not even myself, which is a scary but enlightening thing to realize.

I shared everything with Santana. But why wouldn’t I? She was my best friend. Even though we argued consistently, we were always there for each other. Santana meant everything to me. Sometimes I still can't believe she's gone; she was just everything and anything, but that's what I loved about her.

I wake up some nights and wonder how things could have been different, but then I remember Santana and all she taught me about living life and moving on and accepting hardships.

Together, we made a documentary about life and why it matters. Everyone has a different point of view on life, including Santana and I. The urge to compare and contrast our differences as if it were some competition was what got us into one of the biggest fights of our friendship; our last fight, apparently.

I went home. I left Santana, with that damn dog I told her repeatedly not to keep. I left her in the freezing rain, alone with Brennan, so I wasn't there when he ran into the middle of the street. I wasn't there to catch her arm when she ran after Brennan and saved him from getting hit by a car. I wasn't there when she got hit by the car instead.

I wasn't there for her.

I had never lost a friend before, because, well...Santana was my first friend ever. Maybe there was a reason I never had friends before. It's nice when you have one, but once they're gone it's like losing a limb.

At least that's how I felt the days after Santana passed away. There was this missing part of me that would never again be filled, reattached, no matter how much time passed.

Today, I still think of her all the time. It doesn't make me feel as horrible as it used to, but tears do still come to my eyes, and they always burn.

"It's a day to be scared," Santana said the morning of the day she died.

It's the last words I remember her saying before everything happened all at once. Before our last fight, before our last words, our last kiss, our last touch, our last hope. What she meant was, it’s a day to take risks, because what’s the point of life if you’re not doing something worth living for?

Santana didn't like leaving things incomplete. She finished everything she started; everything but her own life.

* * *

_4 days **before** winter..._

There was shifting in the background, but I could just barely tell this video was being shot in Santana's van. I watched the time increase in the corner of the screen until Santana appeared into view. My breath hitched at her beauty.

This was something I hadn't appreciated when she was still here. I'd always thought she'd be with me forever, so I thought I'd always have a chance to admire her beautiful eyes, button nose, plump lips, round cheekbones.

Taking a deep breath, Santana chuckled to herself, as if she couldn't believe what she was doing. Tears blurred my vision once Santana made eye contact with the lens.

"Hey, tough stuff," she whispered to the camera. I smiled; it felt like we were sharing a deep, dark secret. It felt like she was down in the basement with me again, staring up at the ceiling with that adorable, contemplative look of hers. "I hope you're still wearing your purple, pride bracelet."

I held the camcorder tighter in my hands and inhaled a shuttering breath. I would never take that bracelet off for the rest of my life; I promised myself that a long time ago.

To me, it meant so much more than just pride. That bracelet was a symbol of strength, hope, love, happiness. It was also the only physical evidence I had that Santana had ever existed other than the videotapes.

"That night you came back to me; I will never forget it," she sighed, glancing down as she sat cross-legged in the back of her van. "At first, I thought my crush on you was stupid. Just this small little thing I would get over sooner or later, but all it did was grow as I got to know you more and more. When you said the words _I can't_ , I thought I would never be able to look you in the eye again, but then—then you followed me."

I still remember how I felt that day, when she ran away. Santana was known for running; it was the only way she knew how to move on. It was the only way she could live without regrets. She'd forgive, forget, and ditch the scene. I didn't want her to do that to me, so I went after her.

"You came to the alleyway, in the _dark_ , I might add, which you once swore you'd never do, and you knocked on my van. Honestly, I thought it was Mr. Hanky Panky telling me to move my van again," Santana joked, laughing slightly as she wiped tears away from underneath her eyes. "But when I saw your face through the window, I think my heart almost busted out of my chest. You told me something that night that I will never forget. It was so simple but so real at the same time. You said _I have never loved someone_."

 _The way I love you,_ I had wanted to add, but I wasn't as strong back then as I am today. I think about that night all of the time; the look on Santana's face when she slid back the door to her van and saw me standing there. The words _I love you_ were right on the tip of my tongue, but I refrained from saying them. I'll always regret not saying those words, no matter how much I should let go of the past.

"And then—you..." Santana smiled so wide I thought her face would break in half. A mixture of embarrassment and bashfulness flashed across her features as she lowered her head and whispered, "Then you made love to me, Quinn. And I just—oh my _fucking_ God, right in the back of my van." She chuckled, blushing a bright red as she tussled with her disheveled hair. "It was—I have no words. We are just... _great_ together."

I paused the video and stared at Santana's rosy cheeks with tears in my eyes. I still remember that night. I remember how vulnerable I was; how afraid I was of her leaving me. I knew she was a runner, so I did everything I could to keep her from cutting loose. But that wasn't the only reason I slept with her that night, and I wish I had the guts back then to tell her why.

I remember shushing her as she tried to apologize, once again. _Always_ apologizing, _always_ getting stuff off her chest before we parted ways.

I remember closing the van door behind myself. I remember the startled look on her face as I settled into the dark van next to her. It was so, so dark. I could just barely see her big brown eyes staring up at me as I told her, _no,_ curled a loose strand of unruly hair behind her ear before adding, _it’s my turn to apologize._

I remember how her breath hitched deep in her throat as I leant into her the way she’d done to me in the storage room.

I remember how cold her hands were when they caressed my cheek, pulling me as close to her as possible until our lips touched more and more, until we were lying sideways next to each other, pulling one another’s clothes off until we were both cold and naked and bare, touching each other until we were all warm and fuzzy. I had felt fuzzy all over, especially within my stomach, as she touched me and kept touching me until I let out a low whimper and fell apart in her arms.

Santana used to talk a lot about outer-body experiences and nirvana and heaven, but of all those experiences and places, I thinking being held in Santana’s arms was the warmest and coziest and safest place I could’ve ever been.

Back in my basement, I pressed the play button and wiped a tear away with my forearm. "I feel so much with you, Quinn. Especially when you hold me," she swooned, flushing all the way down to her neck. "I can't wait to kiss you again. Make love to you again. Goodnight, tough stuff." Puckering her lips, she blew a kiss to the camera and sighed, "I love you. I _really_ do."

* * *

  _7 days **into** winter..._  


There was a lot Santana didn't tell me about her real life; the one _away_ from me, all the way on the other side of the country. I thought I knew everything about her, but it seems I didn't even know the half of it.

For the longest time, I told myself that if Santana really loved me she would have told me the truth about her family, her life back home. She would have told me her father, the powerful judge, had committed suicide after being involved in a corrupt lawsuit, pocketing over $2.7 million. She would have told me her mother, a famous movie director, was now a struggling drug-addict. She would have told me she had an older sister in the US army. She would have told me that she never even met her grandfather, a man who believed so much in peace and happiness, because he had died decades before she was even born in a war he didn’t even know the reason why it was being fought.

When Santana told me about her past, she only told me the good parts. I guess I can't really blame her for that. Who really wants to be pitied for having such a horrible family life that they have to run away?

Santana created this persona; not only for me, but for herself. She wanted to believe her stories just as much as I did.

Her sister, almost an exact replica of the girl I would never forget, stood tall in a navy blue dress suit. Through the crowd of travelers, I spotted her quite easily. Pins and badges and buttons decorated her crisp jacket beautifully. Her tightly tied bun just added to the stoic appearance she was trying to convey.

She looked so serious and professional; I would have never even guessed a tragic event had just occurred if it wasn't for the redness in her eyes.

Slowly, her stony expression crumbled as she approached me out of the throng of people. I inhaled slowly when she stopped in front me. "Quinn?" she said questioningly, fluttering her long eyelashes in order to keep her emotions at bay.

"Yes."

Letting out a heavy sigh, the woman lowered her suitcase on the ground beside her and asked, "Are you the one who called me?"

I nodded. "Yes."

A sad smile broke across her face as she engulfed me in a hug. I was never one for hugging strangers, but this woman looked so much like Santana and smelled so much like Santana, that I just couldn't help myself.

" _God_ , I'm sorry," the woman said as she pulled away, tugging down on the lapels of her jacket to smooth out the wrinkles. "I _can't_ —I just really..."

I stood there helpless as tears spilled out from her eyes and stained her nicely prepared outfit. It was my turn to hold her as another sob racked her body and shook me along with her.

"It should have been me," she kept muttering over and over again, right into my shoulder as she cried, and I let her, because I knew how much she was hurting. In the last two months, Santana had become like family to me, and it almost felt like I lost a sister too.

Eventually she pulled away, dabbed at the dry tears on her cheeks, and we made our way to the nearest coffee shop in the airport. It felt weird sitting across from someone who wasn't Santana, but she looked so much like her that I almost didn't realize, which made me feel guilty, as if I was replacing Santana or something.

"I'm sorry for being such a mess," she chuckled humorlessly, after taking a sip of her vanilla latte. "I'm so out of it I didn't even get a chance to introduce myself. Hi, I'm Brennan Lopez." She stretched her hand out to me and smiled a semi-crooked grin.

I stared at her hand for a full thirty seconds before the woman across from me cleared her throat. I glanced up at her with wide eyes and just continued to stare, as if looking at a ghost. "Did you say your name was Brennan?"

"Yeah..." she said slowly, placing her palm down flat on the table when I didn't make an effort to shake her hand.  "Are you okay? Is there a problem?"

"No, no, it's just—" My voice cracked on the last word, and I completely lost it. It had already been about a week since Santana passed away; I suppose breakdowns were to be expected. After all, wounds don't heal over night.

Brennan was next to me in a flash, gathering me up in her arms, quietly shushing me and telling me that it was going to be okay. I wasn't sure if I believed her though. The words she spoke sounded strange coming from those familiar lips, that familiar voice. Santana never assured me that things were going to be okay, because, well…nobody can really know something like that for sure.

But here was Santana's older sister, whispering soft words into my ear about her being in a better place, where nothing could hurt her anymore, where she didn't have to suffer or worry about her mother, where she didn't have to worry about us, where she could be peaceful with her father and grandpa in heaven.

Still, I wasn't sure if I believed it. "I just want to know where she is," I cried, numbly letting my tears drip down from my chin.

"I've visited so many families to tell them their children were killed in battle," Brennan whispered, gently brushing down my disheveled hair. "Before seeing my face at their door, they just seemed so content. Happy to just _not_ know."

I knew what she was trying to tell me. Ignorance is bliss. That’s not what Santana believed at all. Santana wanted to know everything, even if it killed her. Unknowingly, I had caught her curiosity, because now I wanted to know everything too. "I just want to know where she is," I repeated with a sniffle, seemingly stuck in a trance.

She put an arm around me, and I sighed into her shoulder. "There has to be places better than this," Brennan mumbled into my hair, and silently, I hoped she was right.

"There has to be," I said under my breath, and then we were both silent for a long while as we sipped on our coffee and rested our sore eyes by closing them every now and then in exhaustion.

I wondered how long we would sit there and just think about Santana before the silence became unbearable, but eventually Brennan spoke up.

"Santana was just a teenager when I joined the military. She was so afraid for me. That's when I first saw a change in her," Brennan explained, rubbing my arm up and down to keep me calm. "Although I was the older sister, she always wanted to protect me. Santana was so determined that she would have followed me all the way out to war if she could. Santana said she would have even jumped in front of a car for me."

It was only when I looked at Brennan out of the corner of my eye did I realize she was silently crying again. "This _isn't_ your fault," I reassured her, resting my hand on top of hers comfortingly.

"I should have been there to protect her."

"I should have been there too," I whispered, wiping away the rest of my tears. "But Santana wouldn't want us blaming ourselves. She wouldn't want us running through all of the what ifs." I paused and smiled to myself before adding, "You know what I think Santana would say right now if she were here?"

Brennan looked at me, her eyes still fresh and watery as she shook her head. She looked so much like Santana in that moment that it actually startled me.

I briefly wondered how many years she was ahead of Santana. Brennan couldn't have been any older than twenty-five or twenty-six, so it almost felt as if I was getting a glimpse into a future Santana would never live in.

"She would say..." I began, looking right into big brown eyes that reminded me too much of a pain that would linger for the rest of my life. "I think she'd say, _'Suck it up, tough stuff, and don't waste your time mourning when you can waste it living'._ "

Brennan smiled, tears in her eyes, and squeezed my shoulder with this heavy look, and all I saw right then and there was Santana grinning back at me.

* * *

_2 days **before** winter..._

"The only things I regret are the things I don't do with you," Santana said, looking into the lens of the camera as she curled a strand of hair behind her ear. "I want to be vulnerable with you, but how exposed are you, really, if the one person you've stripped yourself bare for can't even see it?"

I was alone in the basement as her voice echoed throughout and bounced against the hollow walls. I never knew she made these videotapes, all alone in her grandfather's van.

So, this is where she'd go after I’d leave the cafe late at night. This is what she would do whenever she wasn't with me. Even when I wasn't around, she was stilling thinking about me, talking to me, hoping to be let into my closed heart.

"As you know, I'm a loner. I'm not good with, you know...people, but I'm great with you," Santana continued, lolling her head sideways against the headrest. "We're great with _each other._ I mean, I can read you like the lines on my palms. We're best friends. There's no end with us, right?"

If Santana was still here today, I would tell her that there is a forever; that even though she's gone now, I will never _ever_ forget her. I might move on, my heart might heal, I might find love again in someone else, but I will never forget what she gave me.

I will never forget the times we shared. I will never forget the advice she gave me, the longing glances we'd exchanged, the brief kisses we'd shared. And just in case those memories did begin to drift away, I always had her videos to help spark my memory.

"Last piece of advice," she began, raising an eyebrow at the camera. "Life's too long to not waste time living."

I smiled unwillingly. Santana was always able to make me smile, even when it felt like the world was ending. She was that light. She was _my_ light. And I was happy to discover it hadn't dimmed with her death.

Santana looked off somewhere and pursed her lips with this thoughtful look gleaming in her eyes. "Sleeping is like time traveling. The faster I go to sleep, the faster I'll be able to see you tomorrow." She smiled shyly at this notion; just the thought of seeing me again had her grinning like a love struck teenager, and it had my stomach clenching in on itself. With a sigh, she looked into the camera and whispered, "Sweet dreams, tough stuff. I love you, I love you."

If Santana was still here today, I would tell her that she was more than just a brain. I would tell her that she taught me how to live again through experiencing death. I would tell her she was right; that it _is_ important to fear because that's what makes taking risks exciting. I would tell her that even though I might be able to wait to find out what the secret to death is, but I’ll _never_ be able to wait to see her again.

She’s the one who got me out of my basement, back into the world, and told me I could be whoever I wanted to be. For a long time, I didn’t believe her. I wasted a lot of time believing more in my nightmares than my dreams. But Santana was a reality. That autumn, she was like a harsh wind; abrupt, fierce, and fast as she woke me up from my trance.

I still remember the way she looked when we first met. Those dimples. That smirk. I can just close my eyes and imagine the whole thing;

Santana stood up from her seat across from me and continued to grin. I smiled back; not only to be polite though. She kind of unknowingly forced it out of me. It's hard to explain, really.

"I guess I'll see you around, Quinn, Quinn, Quinn," she said, while untying her apron.

"I guess so," I said, watching as she backed away from my table and headed towards the glass doors.

 _Bye_ , she mouthed, peeking over her shoulder one last time.

And with that, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I know there is an option for a major character death in the tags, but I felt it would spoil the story too much. Hopefully not too many people are upset about this and enjoyed the story.


End file.
